


walking contradiction

by alisdas



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: (its mutual but spencer doesnt know that bc hes babey), @venusbarnes, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Drug Use, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Masturbation, Pining, Reader-Insert, Song Lyrics, college!spencer, each chapter is based on a song, ill link the playlist !!!, im stupid, starts w college!Spencer and then goes on skdjfskjfdsf, that shite w Tobias Hankle w probs have a lil part of its own yknow, why am i tagging this its kinda already implied
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:41:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26222044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisdas/pseuds/alisdas
Summary: a series of drabbles detailing spencer reid's rocky descent into love.
Relationships: Jennifer "JJ" Jareau/Spencer Reid, Original Male Character/Reader, Spencer Reid/Reader, slight: - Relationship
Comments: 19
Kudos: 119





	1. and your eyes were filled with tears

“When the night was full of terrors

And your eyes were filled with tears 

When you had not touched me yet 

Oh, take me back to the night we met.”

[ — The Night We Met, Lord Huron. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wGF7PswOENQ)

[ (spotify playlist) ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/42SAkowQVuv8ljVHTQXbb1?si=Hq5Vu52nT3mtwNpls1KhXA)

The night is burning orange and purple — the sun a flaming speck on the horizon, light spilling over the sharp, white edifices of Caltech. It’s a late night for him; later than usual, at least, though summer makes the sky  _ that  _ much brighter at 9 PM. Shadows hang long and thin behind Spencer, his pace hurried and hasty as he scurries across campus. 

He’s 19. Just about to finish the first year of his third PhD — Chemistry — and he’s already read all the course material. No direction in life, really, but the PhDs keep him busy; after all, it’s not as if he does much else. His mom was admitted to Bennington last year and Ethan (the  _ only  _ friend his age he has) attends college in Reno — so his days consist of long hours in the library or… playing chess somewhere, maybe. Writing letters to his mom everyday, and visiting his favourite bookstore in Pasadena.

It’s not that he  _ minds  _ it, no — chess is enjoyable. So is reading. So is studying up on the  _ hydrophobic effect phenomenon _ , and his correspondence with his mom is the highlight of most of his days.

It’s just that here —  _ now _ , in the dusk of the first Friday of June, with the humming of cicadas and the distant sound of laughter and chatter in the air — it’s… it’s lonely. Especially considering his age and the amount of PhDs he has. Everyone in his age group is only starting out, gaining their footing; he’s been on this campus since he was 12. His friends are the professors that have watched him grow up.

No matter. He’s used to it — at least that’s what he tells himself as he heads back towards the dorms. It’s the last few days before the academic year ends — a lot had left in the days prior with their belongings only to return for the end-of-year parties. 

(He hadn’t been invited. Not that he’d  _ go _ , but—)

He needs to pack. Most of his things are neat and tidy, reusable boxes folded and stored in his wardrobe, so it’ll only be a matter of hours. One of his professors had offered to help him bring his stuff back home, so tomorrow they’ll be leaving at one o’clock  _ exactly _ —

A sniffle stops his train of thought in its tracks.

He almost thinks he’s imagined it, but then it comes  _ again _ , and his steps falter. His grip on the strap of his messenger bag tightens — eyes making it their business to squint through the steadily growing darkness to seek out the source  _ even _ as he continues to walk. His legs know that it’s none of his business but his mind is the very definition of  _ curiosity killed the cat _ , and—

Oh.

He catches sight of you just off the main path; sitting underneath a lone tree, your back to him. You’re hunched over, your knees to your chest — a sequined top glittering with the last dregs of the day’s light, heeled shoes abandoned in a haphazard pile beside you. You must’ve been at one of the parties, but—

He guesses that you escaped for a bit of fresh air. He’d suggest a nearby bench or wall — anything except for the grass that’s teeming with bugs and bacteria, but you obviously want to be left alone. He’s prepared to comply with that unspoken wish, of course, but then you hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps headed in your direction and you risk a glance over your shoulder, and— 

Quite inappropriately, Spencer’s first thought is:  _ wow. You’re beautiful _ .

(Which doesn’t  _ mean _ anything, of course, he’s just admitting and appreciating aesthetic value and it really holds no weight with personality or intelligence or—)

His second (equally as helpful) thought is: _ you’re crying _ . Mascara streaked cheeks and swollen, shiny eyes, lips glossy and glittering — back shuddering with subdued sobs. It’s… strange, though. You don’t look particularly upset, he realises; your brows are relaxed and straight, your mouth just barely parted with breath. You look… peaceful. 

His steps stop. His breath stutters in his chest. 

He feels indescribably, unquestionably out of place — awkward child prodigy standing before the It Girl.

“H-hi.”

He curses himself the second he says it. Seems like too much and not enough at the same time, and he contemplates simply walking on and pretending it didn’t happen, when:

“Hi,” you reply. You blink, eyes guiding his own up towards the sky, and you let your lips split in a perfect smile. Pretty, but practiced.  _ Empty _ . “It’s a nice night.”

Spencer swallows — both physically and mentally, hands fiddling with the leather strap on his shoulder. “Uh, yeah.”

_ Get back to your dorm, Spencer _ , his conscience tells him.  _ Pack your things and rest up for tomorrow. You need a minimum of 7 hours and that window is closing  _ rapidly—

“Are — are you okay?” 

His conscience  _ groans _ .

“Me?” You say smoothly, bringing your fingers up to pat away the smeared makeup on your face — nonchalantly, without a single bother. You seem monumentally more at ease than he does. “I’m good. What about you?” 

“Me?” His tongue feels too heavy in his mouth and his brain is triple-checking every word that wants to leave his lips, but he’s not gonna tell you that. “I’m — I’m good, thank you.”

And then, because he really can’t help himself and you really  _ should _ know: “Y’know, in addition to tetanus, anthrax, and botulism, soil bacteria can cause gastrointestinal, wound, skin, and respiratory tract diseases.”

The corners of your lips quirk up, and Spencer’s mouth is as dry as sand. He’s reminded of Alexa Lisbon — the prettiest girl in school all those years ago, with her big eyes and long lashes and bell-like laughs. His brain makes a point to remind him of how  _ that _ ended: stripped naked and tied to a goalpost for the entire football team to laugh at. 

“Thanks for letting me know." And then, as if an afterthought: "My name’s _____.”

Spencer very much feels like this is a dream. Or a nightmare. Maybe it  _ is _ . He was reading a study that suggested that dreams don't actually  _ mean  _ anything: they’re merely electrical brain impulses that pull random thoughts and imagery from our memories, and he  _ was _ reading  _ Hippolytus  _ yesterday and, well, you’d make an accurate Aphrodite—

You make a little sound — a huffed sort of laugh, an eyebrow raising in amusement, and Spencer (with his eidetic memory) almost forgets that you’d been crying just minutes before. “Do  _ you  _ have a name?”

“Oh!” His ears burn hot and it doesn’t stop there: the heat spreads across his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, down his neck — this is  _ exactly _ why he doesn’t make it a habit to talk to people, to talk to  _ girls _ — “Uh — Spencer. Reid. Spencer Reid, that’s my — my name.”

Somewhere in distance, in one of the dorm houses, a new song starts: something about a genie in a bottle. He remembers hearing it on a radio a few years ago; generic pop, not his  _ thing _ , but he notices how your head perks up at the sound.

“Nice name,” you say softly, and Spencer gets the feeling that you want to be alone again. “I hope you have a good night, Spencer Reid.”

And so, Spencer Reid turns away and continues his journey home — telling himself that the only reason you stick in his mind is because he literally  _ can’t _ forget, and not because—

Not because of  _ anything _ else. After all, he’ll probably never see you again — or talk to you, for that matter.

  
  
  



	2. you are more than just a dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which spencer wonders if there's a memo he simply hasn't gotten.

“You were out of my league

Got my heartbeat racing

If I die, don't wake me

'Cause you are more than just a dream.”

[ — Out of My League, Fitz and The Tantrums. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z4mbxaa3XL8)

When Spencer was younger, he used to dream of fitting in. Sometimes, he still does.

He’d wish that one day he’d walk into school and everybody would just — would just  _ love _ him. The older boys would pat him on the back and greet him in the halls with a call of his name instead of a shove against the lockers — the girls would give him a second look instead of a scoff and a roll of their eyes. They’d go out of their ways to be his friend, want to have lunch with him in the cafeteria. He wouldn’t have to spend his entire break in the library.

In his fantasy world, he’d always know what to say. He’d understand the jokes thrown over his head and throw a smart quip back twice as fast. He’d pick up on everyone’s cues and be able to hold a conversation and have  _ friends _ , hordes and hordes of them. 

That never quite came true. His high school experience was sour and marred with a fine layer of dust and he was fine to leave it that way — he’d mostly come to terms with the fact that he’d never be the outspoken, confident man he wants to be, but—

But right now, he  _ hates _ it.

He’s not supposed to be here. Not really. He means, he’s not actually  _ taking  _ the class but he’d been talking to Professor Morris about how he was unsure about what to do in the future and he’d  _ mentioned _ being interested in behavioural analysis after seeing Senior SSA Jason Gideon give a seminar on it and—

Long story short: Professor Morris had suggested he sit in on a few classes. Today’s topic is the  _ applied neuropsychology of learning  _ and he would be paying monumentally more attention to the lesson if, upon entering and spotting his face in the crowd, you hadn’t immediately decided that your seat for the day would be the one  _ directly  _ beside his. You greeted some students as you ascended the stairs of the auditorium, waved off a few’s offer to have you sit with them — all so that you could take the seat beside him. The seat, which is no more special than any  _ other _ seat in the entire class.

The second he saw your face he remembered who you were. Of course he did. It’s been four months and he can still recall the colour of the top you’d been wearing and how you bobbed your head along to a song that he now knows was  _ Genie in a Bottle  _ by Christina Aguilera. 

(He didn’t seek it out. Of course he didn’t. He just happened to accidentally hear it playing  _ by accident _ and he heard the radio presenter announce its name. By chance.)

He finds himself squirming in his seat as you take out your textbooks and notebooks, a set of pens and highlighters — is he supposed to say something first? Do you? Is there anything  _ to _ say? What does somebody like  _ him  _ say to somebody like you?

Maybe he’s overthinking it. Maybe you just picked the seat because you liked the position of the podium from here. Maybe you liked the temperature — far away from the doors but near the windows. Maybe you don’t remember him at all. It wouldn’t be so far-fetched — it had been decently dark, and you’d obviously been consuming alcohol, and he doesn’t have a particularly  _ striking _ face — not to mention that the entire interaction took all of 5 minutes.

Spencer casts another badly-veiled glance your way, and for the first time since you sat down, your head shoots up. 

“I can hear you thinking,” you say teasingly, tilting your head to the side. You’re wearing gloss again, just like that first night, and Spencer gulps. The studs in your ears glitter.

“P—pardon?”

“You keep wriggling and looking at me. Are you okay?” He’s glad that class hasn’t started yet, that conversations around you are drowning out your voice, because the embarrassment is already enough like this. He can’t even seek refuge from the light — no, he just has to make peace with the fact that you can see his cheeks flushing like an overripe tomato.

“I’m good,” he manages to squeak out. “Thank you.”

“Hm,” you say, lips stretching in a thin, well-mannered smirk. “Still good, huh?”

“Sorry, what?”

“Still good,” you repeat. Your pen twirls between your fingers, the movements nimble and smooth. “Just like that night a few months ago. Don’t tell me you forgot.”

_ No _ , he didn’t  _ forget _ . That night’s been playing over and over in his brain every other day, as much as he hates to admit it. He hardly  _ asked _ for it, definitely would prefer if he could go about his day without wondering just what it was that you had you crying by yourself on the grass, but alas.

“No, no,” he hurries to say. “I remember. I just — I wasn’t sure if you would. Alcohol affects short-term memory by slowing down how nerves communicate with each other in the hippocampus, so I just assumed —”

“Ah.” You snort softly like he’s said something funny. “I remember that, too.”

When he raises an eyebrow, confused, you shake your head, and there’s no further elaboration. Instead, you turn the attention to him — do it so quickly and flawlessly that for a beat he doesn’t even  _ entertain  _ the idea of you  _ purposefully  _ changing the subject.

“You don’t take this class,” you hum, then. “You weren’t here last year. I would’ve remembered you.”

He doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Either way, he replies: “Uh, no. I — well, Professor Morris suggested that I sit in for a few. I’m thinking of getting my BA in Psychology.”

You tilt your head, and he’s reminded of a wide-eyed puppy. 

“Really?” You say, pursing your lips in thought. “But… Morris teaches Chemistry. That’s a pretty big jump. You must be super smart, huh?”

Ah. Here it comes. The inevitable shock, and then the closed-off chill that comes right after — or maybe worse, the request for him to do your assignments. It was nice while it lasted, Spencer supposes. He didn’t feel like a complete freak of nature while he was speaking to you, so that’s nice. 

“Yeah,” he says. He peers down at his own notebook — hopes he looks like he’s doing something more than trying to ease his anxiety. “I’m… I’m getting my PhD. My third one.”

“...Holy  _ shit _ .”

_ Language _ . “...Yeah.”

“So you’re, like, a mega-genius,” you say, voice giddy — and when his eyes find you once more, your face matches it. A bright, disbelieving smile on your face, your body almost completely angled towards him — but then you see the frown weighing down on his brow, and your smile dims. “What’s wrong? You’re amazing.”

The  _ problem _ is that Spencer’s cheeks are firetruck-red and he’s waiting for the rug to be pulled from under him. He’s waiting for you to narrow your eyes and shoot him a wolfish grin and reveal the reason why you’re talking to him — waiting for the group of loud, obnoxious guys a few rows back to suddenly appear at your side, laughing and guffawing at the fact that he had, for a moment, entertained the idea of  _ you  _ being  _ interested  _ in talking to  _ him— _

“Well,  _ I _ think it’s cool,” you say, shrugging, and you turn back to your notebook with ease, as if he’s not radiating nervous energy, as if you’re not bothered by his  _ obviously _ uneasy demeanour. It doesn’t occur to him to think that  _ maybe _ , you’re really  _ not _ . “So, what do you do for fun, Spencer?”

The change in subject almost takes him aback, but he manages to keep up — even if the answer makes him cringe with embarrassment: “Uh, I — I play chess.”

He imagines that you spend your time with friends — groups of them, exploring the city, sharing music, spending time at the mall. Is that what people his age did for fun? He’s sure that chess isn’t on that list, anyways, as so many people have made clear over the years.

To his surprise — and to the benefit of his frazzled nerves — you don’t react in the way he’d predicted. You just  _ hum _ ; pen still swinging between your fingers, and pout. “I’ve never been able to get the hang of it. Maybe you can teach me.”

If he’d been drinking something, he would’ve choked.

Don’t get him wrong — he doesn’t have a problem with you. Not at all. You’re smart and he can actually carry conversation with you and if he takes you at face value then you seem quite nice, too, but it’s just—

_ What _ is happening? Why are  _ you _ — the real life Claire Standish, if he had to make a comparison — talking to  _ him _ ? What had brought it on? What had possessed you to pass up a seat beside your friends in favour of a seat beside a boy you don’t know in  _ any  _ capacity? You could’ve easily ignored him, pretended to not remember that night or put it behind you, but you didn’t. It’s throwing him for a loop.

(And maybe some part of him — that part of him that’s always secretly wanted to be liked, to be popular, to be  _ normal _ — is thrilled. 

That doesn’t change the fact that you are, indisputably, comprehensively  _ and  _ fully, what he would refer to as  _ out of his league _ . Your crowd sits rows behind you, a wall of laughter and chatter, the cool kids, the  _ popular people _ , of whom you are the queen.)

Still, when you look over at him, eyes wide and questioning, lips pulled taut in a charming smile, the only thing he can choke out is:

“ _ S—sure. _ ”


	3. this isn't what i signed up for

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> when spencer agreed to teach you how to play chess — when he agreed to be your friend, he didn't have this in mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit of a time skip with this one! we're going a few months forward, where their friendship has pretty much been solidified :)

“All in white, like you're an angel

With the sun glimmering off your glass mask

This isn't what I signed up for.”

[— Dissolve, Absofacto](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xe2FPP4lX14)

It comes lightning fast, the realisation. 

He’s sitting at his usual table at his favourite bookstore café, a comic in hand, two empty cups on the table in front of him. It’s one of his most loved places in the city — small and quaint, locally owned, clean and quiet. A great selection of first editions, but a _really_ good pick of graphic novels and comics, and there’s even a figurine he’d seen here a couple of times that he’s thinking of getting—

It’s been five months since that fateful day in the auditorium. _Five whole months_. 

Between your own studying, exams, and projects, between his research and writing his thesis, you’ve surreptitiously managed to worm yourself deeper and deeper into Spencer’s life — and he, into yours, he supposes. For the first time in… ever, Spencer has a friend that he isn’t in constant competition — or is 20 years his elder, for that matter, which is… _strange_ , to say the least. 

He was petrified at first, he’d admit. Unnerved. Every laugh made him freeze, every call of his name had him pausing. He was hesitant with every smidgen of information he gave to you; wary of the chance that it could still come back to hurt him. 

But nothing did. There were no rumours spread on campus; no whispers as he passed — and it continued on that way as he continued to open up, divulging even the most closely-held secrets. 

As time passed and you stuck around, he realised that there was no rug to pull from underneath him; that, somehow, Spencer Reid, _notoriously_ friendless and awkward, had made a friend. 

And you just happened to be everything he isn’t: popular, for one. Somehow _everyone_ you pass seems to know you — and you grin at each and every one of them with a wave of your hand and a call of their name. He doesn’t know _how_ you do it, but he thinks he might know about 60% more faces than he used to just from walking with you through campus.

He knows ( _guesses_ ) that you come from monumentally more money than he does, but you change the subject every time family is brought up. It’s in the quality and fit of your clothes, the way you survive off more than ramen and coffee. He’s gathered that you’re an only child, like he is, and your parents live in Tiburon, but... not much else about your home life. Like he said; you’re quite the expert in changing the subject.

It doesn't matter — there's so much _else_ to learn about you, and it's like he's a glutton for it. Every detail you share, he takes eagerly. The smallest comment, the _tiniest_ realisation, is bundled up and stacked away in that brain of his: everything from your opinion on broccoli (you love it) to the way you take your coffee (sugar, cream, and a _lot_ of it). 

You want to be a child psychologist — and it suits you. The way you’re calm and patient, the way you can spend a few minutes with someone and come away knowing their entire life story. The way people (including him) are naturally inclined to trust you, to _share_ with you.

Your professor only comes with high, _high_ commendations of you, too; you’re one of her best students, and she makes sure to tell that to everyone who will listen (including Spencer, who savoured the chance to see you so flustered when she pulled you both aside at the end of her lecture).

You’re nothing he’d expected you to be — which isn’t saying much, because his own bias had clouded his judgement for longer than he’d like to admit. He’d expected a mean girl. Another Alexa Lisbon; the type that smiled at you and sneered behind your back. The type that talked to people like him for brownie points and nothing more, but—

But you’re _you_ . He’s never been good at reading people, really (not past textbook body language and mannerisms, at least), and he’d never been a true believer in ‘gut feelings’, but… there’s no way that you could be anything other than completely genuine. You’re too… _bright_. 

And you'd disagree, of course. Your closet is an artful blend of black, gold, brown, cream — shimmering and sparkling, yes, but _colours hurt my eyes_ and _brights don't suit me_ . Your smiles are practiced and clean — genuine, sure, but not… not _authentic_. 

(It makes sense in Spencer's mind.) 

The point is: between late nights at the library and walks around campus, study sessions and chess lessons (you really were as awful as you claimed), Spencer really has come to see you as one of his closest friends. 

(Which wasn’t saying much — he could count the amount of friends he has on both hands. One is his mom, the other is Ethan, and the rest are professors.)

Still, he’d been… apprehensive to bring you here. It’s his safe space, in a way. Somewhere that he can come to and unwind and read as much as his heart desires, unbothered by the outside world and the expectations on his shoulders and everything in between. Once you step foot inside — once the place becomes known to you — it’s no longer just his. It exists in your mind as well as his. 

Not only that, but he’s still _painfully_ aware of his image. He plays chess, he writes _letters_ , his phone sees the bottom of his desk drawer more than open air. He carries disinfecting wipes and hand sanitizer in his bag. In every sense, meaning and iteration of the word, Spencer knows he is the posterboy for the Common Nerd.

When he was younger he’d tried to completely snuff those parts of him out, the parts that made him _him_ ; but as he grew older, he learned how to simply keep them quiet. Not advertise them to the world, because advertisement means attention and attention is not what Spencer Reid wants, thank you very much.

It’s stupid. He knows that you aren’t as… as _materialistic_ as he had once predicted, knows that you’re unbothered by the status quo and the social hierarchy, but it still feels like this could be the proverbial nail in the coffin. A book shop that sells _comics_ and _figurines_ and — and _nerd merch_. That’s what Ethan had called it once.

It’s a Saturday afternoon. He’d been walking out of campus grounds when you seemed to appear from quite literally nowhere — clear jelly sandals and black butterfly clips a stark contrast to his muted ( _boring_ ) khaki pants and sweater. 

“ _Where are we going today?_ ” _You’d drawled, shouldering your beaded bag, and Spencer had floundered._

_“Uh — I — aren’t you supposed to be studying?”_

_“I was. But then I got_ bored _and now I’m_ here _with you.”_ _You sent an unbothered smile up to him, and his heart stuttered. “So, what are we doing?”_

_“N-nothing.”_

_“Nothing? You’re walking pretty deliberately for doing nothing. Where are you headed?”_

_“Uh, nowhere in particular.”_

_“I know when you’re lying, Spence,” you chortled, voice sing-song. “C’mon, you can tell me!”_

_Spencer came to a stop, a frustrated sigh on the tip of his tongue._ _“It’s — it’s just—”_

_“Yes?”_

_“It’s — I don’t think it’s your… your scene, that’s all.” He’d bitten the inside of his cheek, watching your face turn thoughtful._

_“My scene?”_ _You echoed, humming, before you looked at him head on and with more determination than he’d ever seen you have. “Every scene is my scene, Spence. Let’s go.”_

The second you’d stepped foot into the store, you’d whistled lowly — marvelled at the vintage furniture, the tall shelves with gilded spines on display. 

It reminded you of home, you’d said, and there was something indescribably solemn about the look you wore on your face — something hidden in the downturn of your lips, but then you walked further in, went to start browsing the shelves. It was as he set down his bag and his coat at his usual table that he saw you pull out a comic ( _Batman: A Death in the Family_ ), your eyes narrowing in thought, and he couldn’t help but smile.

When you came back with it in your hands and told him that you were going to read it, he… Well, to put it simply: you obviously didn’t know much about comics. He wasn’t sure you were even into them before now, but you were going out of your way to read something that he enjoys, putting effort into something that he likes, and—

Spencer exhales — tries to wriggle himself from the past and focus on the present.

You’re ordering more coffee, now, up at the front till. You take yours almost as sweet as his.

He watches you over pages of _The Incal_ ; watches as you lean on the counter, deep in conversation with the barista, wallet in one hand and the other gesturing energetically at the clips in your hair. A sheet of midday light is falling through the storefront windows, a rich, golden yellow, falling over the curve of your shoulder and the swell of your cheekbone and Spencer just—

(He realises that maybe — just maybe — he’d be okay staying like this for as long as the world would allow him to: watching your lips move, watching as a smile brightens your entire face, watching as the light spills over your hair.

And it’s embarrassing, really, because— 

Is that how weak he is? All it takes is a few kind acts and a few months of friendship and a pretty face and he’s… he’s captivated?)

It’s like he said:

The realisation comes lightning fast. The refusal to act on it comes even quicker.

  
  
  
  
  



	4. you and i will share the weight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer lays out his fears — you soothe them.

“We can talk here on the floor

On the phone, if you prefer

I'll be here until you're okay.”

[ — Talk to Me, Cavetown. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eIhU8wBjtsc)

If there’s one thing Spencer admires about you, it’s your ability to find positivity in everything, at least with him. It had caught him off-guard at first — but then, everything about you had. 

You give off the image of a girl who doesn’t give a damn; from the dry, cutting humour with everyone else to the calculated-smudge of your makeup, the artful messiness of your hair. You dip your words in honey when it suits you and when it doesn’t, you  _ don’t _ — and, well, your first impression (crying on the grass, drunk) didn’t exactly paint you as an optimist. 

But you  _ are _ . Six months and 3 days since the day you met, and he’s found that your carefully sculpted mean girl persona crumbles day by day. 

Your smudged makeup takes an hour to do. Your hair, even longer. The dry, cutting humour gives way to stupid jokes only equal to his own, and he learns that when you’re tired the honey-dipped words are put away: in their place, quiet mumbles, snorted laughs. And the pessimism that you so skillfully equip melts into nothingness. In its place is something softer, sweeter. More true to you, and—

“FBI, huh?”

Spencer blinks.

You find the pamphlet in his bag, tucked between a copy of  _ Pride and Prejudice  _ and a Chemistry textbook. He doesn’t even know what you’d been looking for — a spare notebook, a pencil, a hair tie (all things you’d rifled through his bag for before) — but he finds himself wincing at the sight of it all the same; the muted blue and yellow, the font-size 12 words that he’d read in under a minute. You catch the tail-end of his grimace, and puff up your cheeks in confusion. 

“What’s wrong? FBI’s wicked.”

It  _ is _ . Wicked, he means. At least he thinks so. It’s the entire reason why he’s been sitting in on your Psychology classes, reading your textbooks, trying to get a feel for the field before he commits to it. Not that it’ll matter much if he  _ does _ — he’ll speed through the course like he’s done with all of his other degrees. 

The problem is that Spencer Reid (child prodigy) is  _ not _ expected to join the  _ FBI _ . He — he’s gonna find a cure for schizophrenia, help his mom, help  _ millions _ of people around the world. He’s gonna make waves in neuroscience, and — and—

It doesn’t feel like something he could spend his entire _life_ doing. And _nothing_ had felt like it, not really, but — but then there was that seminar with Senior SSA Jason Gideon, the one about behavioural analysis and using it to predict and apprehend criminals, and his interest had been peaked. To be able to see into someone’s mind, to see what pushed them over the edge, to _help_ them and prevent them from hurting others. 

(And Ethan seemed to think it was cool, too, because now  _ he _ wants to join the Academy, and at this point at least 40% of Spencer’s reasoning for it is to beat him—)

The only problem  _ now  _ is, well, grappling with  _ himself _ . With you, it’s like — you know exactly what you’re going to be, right? You know what road you have to take to get there. You’re fiercely determined and you  _ know _ what you’re doing and you don’t seem to have any doubts about it. And Spencer (with his two-and-a-half PhDs, eidetic memory, and high school degree achieved at  _ 12 _ ) can’t help but feel completely and utterly  _ inept  _ compared to you. 

And he’s never felt particularly incompetent or hopeless when it comes to his education, to his intelligence, but something about you makes him flounder. Which is weird, because you’re maybe the only person on earth who’s ever made him feel like being himself isn’t such a  _ bad  _ thing, but… the human mind is a weird thing in and of itself.

Since he was young he was always told he would amount to greatness, become one of the big names. And while it wasn’t his aspiration, particularly, it felt so… so  _ achievable  _ that he simply took it in stride. It feels like a big, practical joke that the only thing that had gotten his attention was something as mundane as the FBI. He couldn’t help but feel like he was—

“Letting everyone  _ down _ ?” You echo, the pamphlet falling to the desk once more. You snort, humour contorting your features as you turn to face him. “Spence, what are you  _ talking _ about?”

His cheeks flush (as they are wont to do in your presence). “I — I don’t know. I… Just like I said. I guess I just don’t want to let anyone down.”

Your eyebrows knit themselves together; you take a seat on the rug beside his bed. “Anyone like  _ who _ ?” 

_ His mom, his professors, his (absent) dad.  _

_...(You.) _

Spencer doesn’t know what to say. Or if he wants to say it. But you look at him with such concerned, soft eyes, and he knows that he’s going to divulge in you whether or not he wants to.

“Well — it’s not — it’s just… I feel like I’ve got people counting on me. My… my mom. The professors. They all expect me to go so far and I — I don’t know if I can. Or if I  _ want  _ to.”

He looks up from his twiddling thumbs, swallows the lump in his throat — peers over to the side of his bed where your head peeks over his comforter. Your arms are folded across the edge, chin resting on your forearms, and—

(For a moment Spencer’s mind blanks — what had he been so worried about again?)

—and you huff a short little laugh. Before he can get hurt, though — before he can register the sting of having you  _ laugh _ at his anxieties, you say: “You must be the only guy in the world, Spencer Reid, that thinks the FBI isn’t  _ going far _ .”

And you spring up with much too much energy for 11 PM and you string yourself right across the width of his bed, leaning your head against the palm of your hand — he can’t even bring himself to feel nervous at being so close to you. On his  _ bed _ .

A finger reaches out and pokes at his knee, and he doesn’t jerk away from it.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” you say, voice soft — and he has to look down at his lap again, because if you keep looking at him like that— “You’re on this earth to live your life, not anyone else’s. You’re… you’re unique and sweet and funny and intelligent, Spencer, and you’re going to  _ continue _ being you no matter what job you pick, because you’re  _ so _ much more than just — than just a protegé, okay?”

His eyes are burning with tears. There’s a lump in his throat that won’t budge.

(Will you ever know how much this means — how much it means that it’s  _ you _ saying it? 

Probably not, if he can help it.)

There’s another tentative poke at his knee, and his glassy eyes meet yours again. 

“Okay?” You reiterate.

“...Okay.”


	5. now i'm getting colder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Spencer wishes that he was someone that he isn't.

“Only if you knew

How much I liked you

But I watch your eyes, as she walks by

What a sight for sore eyes.”

[ — Heather, Conan Gray. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GPUg7n8-M6o)

“Don’t look up, Spencer.”

It hurts. It aches. It burns and festers and when your eyes narrow on the door as it opens Spencer thinks that somehow, some  _ way _ , he might go into sudden cardiac arrest. At least then he won’t have to see it — the way you straighten your back and adjust your shirt and press your glossed up lips together.

The person who walks through the door is your equal in every meaning of the word. The December air follows him through the door, and Spencer’s suddenly more than grateful that you’d let him borrow your sweater — it’s thick, cable-knit fleece, a light cream colour. He doesn’t usually mind the cold, his hands are  _ always _ freezing, but you’d insisted —  _ “Looks better on you than it does me,” _ you’d said, which Spencer thinks is a barefaced lie. 

Your newfound crush begins up the steps, bag hooked over one arm, and Spencer sees you stare resolutely down at your books. He takes the time to look at him more closely as he nears, though, because all he’d heard from you was  _ he’s studying to be a sports psychologist _ and  _ he plays lacrosse really well! _ and they’re not exactly  _ measures  _ of one’s personality.

His name is Marcus Stahl: a student-athlete still riding his wave of popularity from high school — he plays lacrosse and has decent grades (good enough to get him into Caltech, so take that with a grain of salt) and when he walks he walks like he’s  _ trying _ to tell everyone that he’s the best. Floppy, yellow-blonde hair, blue eyes, shockingly white teeth that he bares with a blinding smile.

The boy next door.

He’s everything Spencer has ever wanted to be. Secretly, shamefully, a desire hidden close and tight to his heart — because  _ yes _ : despite all Spencer has — despite the fact that he  _ knows _ that appearance and social standing means nothing in the grand scheme of things — fitting in is still that one, unattainable little secret desire that’s always been out of reach.

Still, Spencer hides his jealousy — his discomfort, his self-consciousness — and let’s his lips split in the ghost of a smile. “I’m not.”

It was only two days ago — early Saturday morning, and by early he means  _ 2 AM _ — when you’d knocked down Spencer’s door, having sneaked past his dorm supervisor, buzzed from the party you’d been at. You’d invited him, of course, but parties weren’t exactly his idea of a good time; the underage drinking, poor hygiene, overcrowding. They were yours, though, and it seemed that  _ that _ party in particular had reaped a particularly good harvest. 

After his usual 10 minute spiel about the dangers of alcohol consumption on the developing mind, and after making sure to wash and disinfect your hands (just in case) you'd spilled:  _ apparently _ (if he had decoded your drunken chatter well enough), Marcus had spent the night talking with you —  _ about everything and anything _ , you’d giggled, falling flat against his bed.  _ And he  _ listened  _ when I spoke and he brought his MP3 and we listened to music upstairs and— _

( _ I listen to you, too,  _ he’d thought dejectedly. And he’ll invest in an MP3, if you’re okay with listening to Beethoven and Bach.

But he’s not Marcus Stahl. He’s not buff and confident and outspoken. He rambles and he’s weedy and the only thing he’s confident about is his knowledge — he’s not  _ half _ as handsome or bold as the apple of your eye. Not even close to deserving you.)

“Hey,” he whispers, leaning over towards you, “What’s the point in this if you’re not going to actually  _ talk _ to him?”

You hush him. “I’m playing hard to get, Spence.”

His face screws up. “Why?”

He’s never understood it. Well, he understands it in an archaic, almost  _ animal _ sense: if you make it harder for a suitor to get your attention, you are perceived as having greater value as a partner, and the challenge is a turn-on. But in reality, what’s the appeal in having a person you’re interested in pretend to  _ not _ be interested in you? 

“Guys like Marcus like the chase,” you say, like it’s obvious, and you reach out to poke his shoulder. “You’re too sweet to understand, Spence.”

He doesn’t know. Maybe he is — he thought being sweet was a  _ good _ thing. Why would you want a boyfriend who  _ isn’t _ ? He can’t wrap his mind around it; you deserve monumentally  _ more _ than a boyfriend who only wants you when you’re a thrill, when you’re a thing to chase. Somebody who… who’ll read to you and knows your coffee order and helps you study and kisses your nose when you scrunch it up and—

He wants to tell you that. That you deserve much better than Marcus Stahl, much better than  _ him _ , too.

(But he also wants to reach over and tangle your fingers in his until he can’t tell where he ends and you begin, he wants to read you obscure theories about his favourite TV shows, he wants to be able to not have to stop himself from leaning forward and kissing the foam moustache left behind by your coffee.

He’s no Marcus Stahl, though, and the words die in his throat before they can really come to life.)

Spencer squeezes the sleeves of your sweater in his hands; inhales the weakened smell of your perfume threaded in the thick wool. He gathers himself, and simply says: “Right. I guess I don’t.”

The room seems frightfully chilly for the next hour.


	6. i don't wanna be your friend (i wanna kiss your lips)

“Oh, this can't be real

It's all just a dream

I don't wanna be your friend, I wanna kiss your lips

I wanna kiss you until I lose my breath.”

[ — i wanna be your girlfriend, girl in red. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=COOBN-cdJbo)

Spencer prides himself on his patience. His patience, and his sense of calmness — his ability to think before he acts, his natural hesitance to rush in without imagining the consequences. His brain identifies each and every possible pathway, every possible outcome to what he might do. He’s never been rash or hotheaded, never been one to act on emotion. 

So  _ why _ is it that he has to remind himself to keep a cool head where you’re involved?

_ “You’re a good friend, Spence.”  _

You make it a point to remind him so  _ often _ . When he helps you study, when he remembers your coffee order ( _ how _ could he forget?), when he does something as  _ simple  _ as make you laugh. And it’s not like he doesn’t like being your friend — he values your company greatly. You make him smile and you tell jokes almost as bad as his, you have strong, interesting opinions and he admires you as a  _ person _ , not just as a — a potential love interest. Or implausible love interest, more accurately.

It’s just — it  _ hurts _ . In the most juvenile, immature way, it hurts. And it shouldn’t, because in reality he had made his peace with it from the very day he realised his feelings for you, but it’s proverbial salt in the wound. It’s a reminder of his own shortcomings, of his weaknesses, of the things he’ll never be able to  _ be  _ or achieve. A reminder that he’s going to have to watch you be with someone else,  _ love _ someone else in the way he wants you to love him—

Spencer sighs, and your head shoots up.

He hasn’t seen you in two weeks. Which is natural, of course — he hasn’t seen Ethan in months, given their distance — and you’re both busy with schoolwork. You’re in your second year of college, he’s writing his thesis. It’s completely normal for friends to drift back and forth; it’s  _ life _ , even, and Spencer is smart enough to know this — still, like everything else, it—

_ Hurts _ . He finds himself wondering, pondering, replaying  _ everything _ : why are you friends with him? Why, when you can have people like Kelly Baxter and Yolanda Jeon and  _ Marcus _ ? Rich, confident, funny friends. From what he’s gathered you’ve known them for years and yet you’ve been spending a majority of your time with  _ him _ , a boy you decided to become friends with after a five-minute conversation at 9PM — which you were  _ drunk  _ for.

It’s a strange feeling. Wanting you so bad that it hurts but knowing that realistically, there are people far more suited to you — but what is Spencer Reid if not a walking contradiction?

There’s a clearing of your throat, and he zones back in; your eyes are still trained on him, an eyebrow raised as if to say  _ are you gonna tell me what that sigh was about? _ — and he finds himself just…  _ looking _ at you. Mind travelling at a mile a minute, replaying every moment he’s had with you: that first night, and the day you first talked  _ properly _ , and the first time you played chess, and when he realised you’d started carrying wet wipes in your bag for him, and—

“Spencer?” The tip of your pencil taps gently against his arm, and he jolts. When he looks up at you, you’re frowning. “What’s wrong?”

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again — only to close, again. 

What  _ is _ wrong?

“Why—” He glances over your shoulder, knowing intellectually that there are no eavesdroppers present in the almost-empty library, but checking all the same. “That day. In the auditorium. Why did you sit beside me?”

Your hand draws back, and the expression that covers your face for a split second is hard for him to decipher — something thoughtful but far-away, confused but regretful. Not regretting  _ him _ , but… something that he can’t pinpoint. Something that you haven’t told him yet, but he can only hope that you trust him enough to confide in him—

You exhale; hunch your shoulders forward and lean so far over the small table between you that if he leans forward, too, he’ll be  _ entirely _ too close to you — almost nose to nose, with only a few inches of space separating you.

“Do you remember the night we met?” You say quietly. You snort, then, interrupting him before he can open his mouth: “Wait, stupid question. Of course you do.”

Spencer doesn’t say anything: just waits, wide-eyed and curious, for you to continue.

“That night, I was…” You blow out a puff of air, shake your head side to side. Glance down at your page, and then to the side — textbook nervous tendencies. “I guess I was just tired. I had a call from my mom earlier that day and she was — I mean, she was as she  _ usually  _ is: which is to say, shallow and callous. I thought I’d have a few cheap beers and some spiked punch and let loose for a while, but…

“I don’t know. I was drinking my punch and sitting on this shitty couch and I just  _ listened _ . I listened, Spencer, to some of these kids — some of whom I _ grew up with  _ — and they’re just… they’re just  _ terrible _ . I came to Caltech to get away from my parents but it’s like I’ve just surrounded myself with mini versions of them, and—”

Another sigh, and you shake your head — but then, finally, you look up. You meet his eyes. 

“That night,” you continue — and he has to force himself to _ not  _ look away, because you have the most intense,  _ deep _ eyes and his heart is thudding in his ears— “You were… the most genuine person I think I’d ever met. And you still are, and that’s why I sat next to you. That’s why I talked to you, and that’s why I’m here, Spencer, because — because you’re a good… guy. A good guy, and a good friend.”

And after a second, you take your pencil back in hand, and continue sketching out the diagram you’d been studying — and Spencer has to pretend like he isn’t grappling with his entire conscience to stop him from surging across the table and kissing you—

_ A good guy. A good friend _ . A deluge of warmth settles itself in his chest. He’s been called lots of things: genius, prodigy, son — (loser, nerd) — but a good friend? That’s an entirely new one, and (not for the first time) he’s  _ tremendously  _ grateful for his memory because this — you, now — is not a moment he wants to forget. It feels like a bubble has formed around you both, quiet and intimate and frighteningly shatterable.

And although his heart is (quite resolutely) screaming  _ I don’t want to be your friend! I want to  _ kiss  _ you!  _ he knows that this — your friendship — will be enough. He doesn’t have to be yours — he just… he’d like to be in your life, for as long as you’ll allow him to be.

(“You’re nothing like them,” he says, ten minutes later.

“Sorry?” 

“Those people you’re friends with. Paula and Carrie and Donovan. You’re not like them.” He clears his throat and hopes to whatever powers that be that you’ll keep your eyes on your page because his cheeks are red hot. “I — I just thought you should know that.”

“...Thanks, Spence.”

“No problem.”

And that’s that.)

  
  



	7. i wish you'd hold my hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's a good day, until it isn't.

“All I know is that you're so nice

You're the nicest thing I've seen

I wish that we could give it a go

See if we could be something.”

+

“Basically, I wish that you loved me

I wish that you needed me

I wish that you knew when I said two sugars,

Actually I meant three.”

[ — Nicest Thing, Kate Nash. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VmT9jNashAg)

Madame Tussauds is cool, Spencer supposes. He’s never been to a wax museum — you’d been quick to buy tickets when he told you that in passing. $25  _ each _ , would you believe? You’d been clever enough to hide the price from him, and would’ve probably continued to do so if he didn’t catch a glimpse of the ticket kiosk just outside. 

_ “Twenty-five dollars?” _ He almost couldn’t believe his eyes.  _ “Hold on — wait, let me get my wallet—” _

_ “Put your money away, kid genius,” _ you’d snorted, bumping your shoulder gently against his.  _ “It’s on me.” _

He doesn’t know much about the people inside. There are famous icons, but it’s mostly sex symbols and pop stars and… not much else, really. There’s one of Elvis, which he recognises, and another (very poorly made) of Cher — and his  _ favourite _ , a sculpture of Houdini, his face carved to perfect likeness, wearing a black suit with a bow tie tied at his neck. You take a picture in front of that one; both of you beaming, Harry Houdini’s waxen face still and never-changing between you — and ten minutes into his rant about the complexity of the American-Hungarian illusionists illusions, he stops to take a breath, and you say:

“You still haven’t shown me any magic tricks, Spencer, and you  _ promised  _ last time.”

(He  _ did  _ promise. Somewhere between the hustle and bustle of it all, he promised. He still doesn’t know which trick is cool enough to show you. He’s never  _ had _ a friend to show except Ethan — and Ethan isn’t  _ you _ .)

He knows a lot about wax sculptures, too — monumentally _more_ than current pop artists —, and he talks your head off about _that_. The methods, the rise in popularity, the best sculpting wax available (microcrystalline, either Victory Brown or Victory Amber, depending on the temperature of your studio due to the softer texture of the latter—), how Madame Tussauds had first opened in 1835 and wowed visitors with the lifelike visages of important and well-known celebrities.

And you listen. You don’t interrupt, and you don’t sigh in exasperation or roll your eyes like so many other people do when he begins to speak like that — or, ramble, more specifically. He was told once that he  _ rambles _ , he doesn’t  _ speak _ , and yet — and  _ yet _ , you don’t care.

(You’re nice like that.)

You leave Madame Tussauds with two souvenir cups, one for him, one for you. They’re bright red, with the name of the museum pulled across the side in scrolling, curling gold.  _ To remember today _ , you’d grinned, shoving one into his hands.  _ C’mon, I’m hungry. _

That’s the first time he has street food.  _ Him _ .  _ Street food _ . And he only worries about the germs and grease for a minute! You both amble down the street for somewhere to sit with a hot dog in one hand and a soda in the other, souvenirs pressed snug and safe into your backpacks; the sun beams high overhead, mid-February coming quick and intense and it feels like for a moment that everything is—

“Marcus asked me out.”

—okay. 

Marcus… asked you out. That’s okay. That’s more than okay. You  _ like _ Marcus — Spencer  _ wants _ him to ask you out, because that’s what  _ you _ want, but—

“I said yes.”

He knew that the day would come when you’d…  _ get  _ with someone. You’re sought after — popular, and you hadn’t exactly closed yourself off to dating, either. With your flourishing social life and your sense of humour and your  _ looks _ , you’re… well, now that he’s thinking about it, he’s almost surprised it hadn’t come sooner. 

Still, he finds himself floundering. His mouth opens and closes, tongue stuttering around nothing and everything and he feels his throat close and his fingers tremble and—

“T-that’s great.”

You hum. You’ve only taken one tiny, miniscule bite out of your hotdog, and — well, it’s not wishful thinking, but from the way you stare out at the groups of people picnicking on the grass and the downturned quirk of the corner of your lips, you don’t… you don’t look  _ happy _ . And that confuses him more than anything.

“Do you… do you  _ like  _ him?” Spencer asks, and when you look over at him he knows that you both know that he doesn’t just mean  _ like _ . He means that type of crush where… where you can see a future with them, where you  _ want _ a future with them, where you want to be around them all the time and your heart speeds up at the sight of them and—

Do you  _ like _ him? Can you see yourself beside him with no regrets?

You shrug. Take a sip of your soda and smile a smile that’s too sweet to be anything but sad. “He thinks I’m pretty.” 

Those four words replay in Spencer’s mind, over and over and over and over. No respite, no calm. He doesn’t know why the words settle and curdle in the back of his throat; doesn’t know why it all feels like a bad dream, because he’d been expecting this from the start.

_ He thinks I’m pretty. _

“That…” That’s not — that’s not an  _ answer _ . That’s not a  _ real _ answer, that’s not what you should say about your — your  _ boyfriend _ , right? Spencer has no experience with dating, but… but it’s easy, right? To say:  _ I do, Spence. I do like him _ . Seven words. That’s the bare minimum, and he won’t lie — it’s a little disarming that you’re outright avoiding answering it. “That’s not an answer, _____.”

Another hum, another shrug, and you take a sip of your soda. There’s a little grin on your lips but it’s more performative than anything else. “Maybe. It doesn’t matter.”

It  _ does _ matter. It 101% matters. It’s like asking Spencer what he thinks of you, and him saying  _ she thinks I’m funny _ . It… it just doesn’t make sense.

_ Maybe she’s too shy to say it,  _ his mind offers.  _ Be honest with yourself, Spencer. What would  _ you  _ say? _

He… He’d say that you’re nice. Not nice in that superficial, unimportant way, the way one talks about acquaintances and classmates, but… it’s hard to explain. It’s like — when he thinks about what  _ nice _ means in regards to you, he doesn’t mean that you’re easy to talk to or you’re sweet. You  _ are _ , but that’s not what he means. He’s read the poetry, the books. Listened to the music and heard the lyrics. He’s seen love be described as all-encompassing, so blinding that it  _ hurts _ , loud and passionate and chaotic. Spencer doesn’t think of you like that. You’re warmth and gentleness and kindness and slow, late nights; quiet talks too late in the evening when you’ve sneaked past the dorm supervisor and claimed the end of his bed for yourself. 

You’re nice like a warm hug and a home cooked meal, comfortable routine and domesticity. Nice like… holding hands in winter. That’s what his ‘nice’ means. 

Vaguely, in the back of his mind, he wishes — as you change the subject, start talking about how you’re  _ definitely _ holding him to showing you how to do magic — that he was  _ your _ nice, too.


	8. i was lonely (i got used to it)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> spencer makes a bad decision.

“I just remember I was lonely

I guess I am always

It's not a problem

It's just something I got used to.”

[ — i was all over her, salvia palth. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9rN2Cj2VG28)

Spencer knew it was a bad idea to tell Ethan about you. A terrible, no-good, very bad idea — and yet he’d done it anyways, because the letters to his mom didn’t ease the ache in his chest enough and he needed someone _tangible_ and _real_ to vent to — not a piece of paper.

And look where it had gotten him. His moment of selfishness has landed him in a random frat house, in a miscellaneous room, _drunk_. Laying on a stranger's bed. 

Yes. Spencer Reid — proud owner of a _third_ PhD now, thank you very much — is drunk for the first time in his life. He never thought he'd see the day — but Ethan is visiting and _you just got your third PhD_ and _don't you want to get your mind off that girl?_

(No. Annoyingly, _confusingly,_ no. He doesn't want you off of his mind. And if anything, the alcohol had only made it worse — that empty feeling in his chest.)

But Spencer had said _yes_ , because apparently badly thought-out decisions are his speciality now. They came to this party. Spencer (after a long winded rant about the possible contamination of the spiked punch and the dangers of underage drinking) had downed two shots — 7 minutes between the two of them, and they'd burned his throat all the same. 

For a moment after that — between spluttering and swallowing past the stinging of his throat, between blinking through the lethargy that settled over his brain and pushing down the sudden urge to laugh—, he thought he'd seen you. In the brief pockets of space in the crowd, glowing red and blue with the atmospheric lights the fraternity had so clearly invested in, looking back at him.

It wasn't you. It was someone else. She didn't even look like you, really, except maybe for the eyes and the slope of her lips — but she'd caught him staring and walked over and invited him upstairs and Spencer just _followed_ her. Whether because his mind was clinging to the fantasy of you or because his inhibitions were _scarily_ lowered or because he was lonely or _all three_ , he doesn't know. 

They… they sat on the bed. She kept shuffling closer to him; kept trying to toy with his shirt and his hair. She talked — about what, he doesn't know; he listened, he clung to every word, but in the sense that he let them melt together and flow over him, fill his ears like cotton wool. He watched her lips move, watched her half-lidded eyes flicker over his face — but when they split in a smile, somehow too thin and too wide at the same time, his chest had jolted, because—

She's not _you_. 

He didn't end up doing anything with her, which is a relief, because he knows he probably wouldn’t have said no and he’d come to regret it — whether because of his lack of feelings for her, or because the thought of touching someone that he _doesn’t know_ in a place like _this_ would have wormed itself into his sober brain and terrorised him.

She leaves of her own volition, though; his lack of response must have bored her, because she simply got up and walked out. He'd locked the door after her; had a moment of clarity where he'd panicked and almost got sick, and then faded back into the dull, pleasant thrum of drunkenness.

 _What am I doing here?_

Is this what you do almost every weekend? Go to an overcrowded house and drink and follow someone upstairs? He'd be shivering at the mess downstairs, at the crowded, stifling heat and the spilled drinks sticking to the floor — more so that he was _in_ it for more than 5 minutes — if the alcohol wasn't completely clearing his mind of the ability to care. 

_(And it's not 'someone' anymore,_ his brain makes a point to remind him. _It's Marcus.)_

Yeah. Marcus. 

Spencer stares at the ceiling. The music thumps in his ears; vibrates the floors and the walls and the ceilings and his _skin_ , it feels like. 

He doesn't think he likes drinking, much. Or at least, not shots, and not in a frat house. Maybe it's just the typical college experience that he doesn't like. The messiness of it all. Still, the warmth that blooms in the pit of his stomach and rises all throughout his chest and up onto his cheeks is _pleasant_.

He knows that, in reality, his body is technically getting _colder_ — the rush of blood to the skin's surface is actually a means of body cooling, and the heat he feels is just a perception generated by thermoreceptors in his skin, but—

Like he said: pleasant. 

Almost as if in a trance, he finds his hands drifting — smoothing comfortably and almost unnoticeably down his chest, over his stomach… Lower, even, until he accidentally brushes over something that makes him let out a strangled gasp—

_Oh._

Okay. This isn't… _new_ , of course. He's a young man, he's had — he's had _erections_ before, but not — not in such a public place, and certainly not one that formed _completely_ without his knowledge, and—

His palm presses down, harder, and his eyes flutter shut. 

_This is wrong this is wrong this is wrong this is wrong this is so so so so so wrong—_

But that makes it better. He's not going to be caught — he's locked the door, and the room itself is in a pretty obscure place — but the idea of doing this _here_ , not in his _bedroom_ , makes him shiver.

It's the alcohol. Lowering his inhibitions and clouding his thoughts and as he unzips his fly and reaches into his boxers he swears he won't touch a drop of it for as long as humanly possible.

His hand feels feverish against the length of him — cold and hot and dry and damp with sweat at the same time, tightening around the base of his cock in such a way that his mouth _has_ to become agape, his eyes _have_ to shoot open—

He doesn't do this often. Is that obvious? He can count on one hand the amount of times he's, well, taken himself in hand and masturbated. Well below the average libido of a 19 year old man, but he can't help it. Regular methods of satisfying his arousal don't help him — magazines or videos or _whatever_ it is that guys his age use. Rather, when he thinks about what sets off the pulsing pleasure in the pit of his stomach, he:

Sees _you_ . Blurred and warped by his imagination, by his dazed eyes, but it's you. Laying beside him on your side, lips swollen and bitten, your eyes half-lidded and dark — looking _right_ at him, looking at him like he looks at you. 

His hand tightens into a fist over the head of himself; loosens and twists as it pumps down again, speed increasing with every thumping bass note from downstairs. Spencer's breathing shudders, shakes. Your tongue dips out from between your lips — licks gently over the soft, plush flesh, and this time he can't hold his gasp back. 

You’re so — you’re so pretty, and his eyes are blurry because Ethan had told him that _glasses aren’t cool, Spencer_ , and the lights are dim and your figure sways in and out of focus and for a moment he’s not sure what’s real and what’s not. All he knows is that his grip tightens, his thumb swipes over the weeping head of his cock — it sends a jolt of pleasure down to his curling toes, and — it’s a murmur, really, but it’s your name on his tongue nonetheless.

You're so beautiful. This is so wrong and you're so beautiful and you're looking at him like that, you're saying his name, you're leaning closer and your lips are almost over his and your hand closes over the one he has pumping his cock and—

The average male lasts 5.4 minutes during sexual intercourse. Spencer manages about 3/5ths of that — around the length of a song, before he cums with a disbelieving, high-pitched groan. Spills white all over his hand and between his fingers, chest heaving and forehead beading lightly with sweat, pleasure tightening and pulsing all throughout him.

Within 30 seconds, the rush of endorphins to his brain has mostly cleared and he feels disgusting. Zip undone, genitalia out and laying limp and messy. The stickiness on his hand makes him want to get sick — the fact that he's on somebody else's bed makes him want to get sick, as does the fact that he was thinking of _you,_ as does this _party_ as does this headache-inducing _music_ as does _everything—_

It's gross. It's gross and disgusting and an invasion of privacy and you’re his _friend_ and he hates that it felt good. 

He’s terrible. He… he… he doesn’t even know what to think about himself. Using the image and thought of you without your knowledge… _objectifying_ you to bring himself to orgasm after all of the trust you’d put in him is — is—

 _Disgusting_ . He can’t think of any other word for it. For _him_. 

There’s some sick sense of luck that he’s in a frat, at least. There's tissues on the bedside table that he uses with shaking, trembling hands, a lump in his throat and tears burning behind his eyes. He even manages to actually get into a bathroom to wash the stickiness from his fingers, and then— without warning Ethan, who Spencer is sure is preoccupied himself — he slips out through the least populated exit, and splutters through the cold spring night air. 

He’s sobered up scarily quickly.

 _It’s the alcohol_ , he decides, following the path engraved into his head back home. _You know you wouldn’t do that normally, Spencer. That... doesn’t change the fact that you_ did _do it, though, and you have plans to help her study tomorrow, and you’re going to have to look her in the eyes knowing what you did—_

Spencer’s stomach lurches, and he makes a promise to himself:

He will never, _ever_ tell anyone about tonight. 

Ever. 

(But he’ll never forget it, either.)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two idiots wonder if the other wants to talk.

“Oh all I ever wanted was a

Life in your shape

So I follow the white lines

Follow the while lines

Keep my eyes on the road

As I ache.”

[ — Strawberry Blonde, Mitski. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sX0O2iip-pE)

Spencer remembers the day you told him that you wanted to get as far from California as possible. 

Remembers it well, in fact, as he does with most things. Remembers how you’d said it so casually, moving one of your bishops diagonally over the park chessboard — eyes focused  _ completely  _ on the game as if you’re not dishing out some of the most important news of your life to him — remembers how you’d pursed your lips when he swiped it in one swift movement.

“New York, I think,” you’d continued. “I’ve been looking at apartments and everything.”

(At that time, he was still finding it a little hard to look you in the eyes without flushing — it was the summer between the end of this 3rd PhD and his admission to the Psychology course that  _ you  _ were on your way to finishing, just weeks after a party where he’d done something  _ terrible _ and  _ of course _ that meant it was on his mind non-stop—)

But you’ve still got an entire  _ year _ to go until you graduate — what’s the rush? Why are you always so eager to run, to change, to move on? Why can’t things just slow down, stay the same for even a little while?

(He doesn’t say that, though.)

And Spencer’s not stupid — he knows the world won’t stop because he’s asked it to; he knows  _ he  _ has to continue moving with it, and he’s never been  _ frightened  _ of it ( _ it _ , being the ever-changing and non-stopping tide of time). He’s been frightfully independent since he was 12 years old, eager to move up and on. In fact, he can count on one hand the amount of times he’s wanted the world to stop:

  1. The day his dad left. He hadn’t really understood it, at first — didn’t know why his dad had packed the suitcase and spoke in hurried, defeated words to his mom; didn’t know why he was there one second and gone the next, as if he never really existed in the first place.
  2. The day his mom was admitted to Bennington Sanitarium. This one confuses him, still, because _he_ was the one that had called them, _he_ was the one that made the decision to have his mom taken away, and yet — and _yet_ , he remembers curling his fists up so tight that it hurt, watching her be escorted away, wishing that for just one, measly second, everything paused.
  3. _Then_ , he supposes. Watching you scour the chessboard for an opening as if he wasn’t one more move from winning, the suddenly terrifying concept of change looming over your heads like a dark cloud.



Like he expected, time didn’t stop. It didn’t pause for him, didn’t stutter over itself. It kept going and going and going and a year later you’re in New York and he’s still stuck in California and he’s never  _ thought _ about being here as ‘stuck’ but now he is. 

You send texts, emails. You even send  _ letters _ because you know his phone is more often at the bottom of his bag and every time he gets one it feels like… like… like his chest could explode, if that were possible. The thin, looping scrawl of cursive and the weakened smell of your perfume, the way he could almost  _ hear _ your voice through your words… He keeps every one of them.

The distance was hard, but the letters made it better. He read them over and over again — how painstaking it was to find a good apartment that didn’t smell like a dumpster, or how the streets scared you after dark but you were getting used to it (and enrolling in a self-defense class, per his suggestion), how you found a job at a local clinic and were  _ loving _ it.

(How Marcus visits often, and how you’re going on a weekend trip to his parent’s summer house in Florida, and how things are going  _ good _ between you even though you ‘were  _ sure _ your last fight was going to end in a break-up’.)

The letters and phone calls and emails — even small visits — continue all throughout the short while it takes him to speed through his Psychology and Sociology BAs — and make no mistake,  _ speeds _ is the correct word. The good thing about having an eidetic memory and three published theses at 20 years of age is that your professor trusts you when you say  _ I can take the final exam now instead of next year. I’m ready. _

From there, it’s the FBI — which is good, because New York’s not _that_ far; not from Quantico, at least. Not from Washington DC, which is where he sets up shop once he completes his training (which was easy, and then hard. The physicals floored him — he’s got about as much muscle mass as a spaghetti noodle, but he doesn’t care, because _Ethan_ dropped out on the _first_ _day_ and _he_ didn’t and once Spencer was remediated for his physicals, _he_ joined).

Now he’s part of the BAU. Has been, for a year, officially, with the year  _ prior  _ spent in the mentorship of SSA Jason Gideon, floating between the headquarters in Quantico and Gideon’s teaching job he had taken up during his medical leave.

He’s just turned 23 years old. He’s the youngest member of the BAU — the youngest SSA the FBI’s ever seen. He’s known for being whip smart and noticing the smallest, most obscure details —  _ an invaluable member,  _ Gideon had once said to someone else in passing. So  _ why— _

Why is it that when JJ first calls him  _ Spence _ , his entire body freezes up?

It’s like a bucket of cold water being shucked over his head. 

(You're the only person who's ever called him Spence.)

"Sorry," JJ laughs nervously, brushing a hand through honey blonde hair, "I just thought—" 

"Oh, it's — it's fine, really. Spence is fine."

Jennifer Jareau is the new Communications Liaison. She’s smart as a whip, plays the media like a fiddle, comforting and empathic with victims and families and — and yeah. Spencer thinks she’s pretty. Shimmering golden hair, bright blue eyes, thin, curling lips. She reminds him of you — that sweet, grinning way she carries herself. Or maybe it’s the way she says his name.

Anyways—

_ Spence  _ is more than fine. Spencer’s problem is thinking that it’s  _ yours _ : as is the sweater hung over the back of his seat, as is the picture developed from that day at Madame Tussauds that’s tucked into his wallet, as is the Star Trek figurine that you’d bought him for Christmas, as is that bright red souvenir cup that holds his coffee every morning. They’re  _ his _ , but — but they’re  _ yours. _ Still in your shadow, still in the colour and shape of you.

The last time he heard your voice was last week — the last time he  _ saw _ you in person was almost 16 times that. Letters and emails and texts only go so far, and, well—

And it’s harder, he thinks, being so far from you. He’s gotten used to it — he’s always been frightfully independent — but sometimes he still thinks about… well,  _ everything _ . How he’d been fine alone, really, but then you’d slid into his life and changed it all up and he had to get used to not being near you  _ again _ once graduation passed and you relocated. 

It’s a weird in-between, because you’re still one of the first people he thinks of when he wakes; you’re still his first call when something goes wrong; you’re still his emergency contact; he still remembers how you take your coffee — and yet, he… he hasn’t heard your voice in days. He hasn’t seen you in person in  _ weeks _ .

(And not for lack of wanting, either, but both of your schedules are hectic and when he  _ does _ have the time his mind makes a very strong point to tell him that you probably have better things to be doing.)

JJ smiles, and Spencer thinks it’s lovely, almost as much as yours is — and that thought strikes him, because he’s never thought it about anyone but you, really, and maybe Alexa Lisbon back in high school. “Spence, right.”

(For a moment, his mind entertains it: the idea of… thinking of someone else. Of finally accepting that he’ll never have you, of finally moving on. JJ is a nice girl. She’s sweet, and pretty, and kind, and smart, and—

((She’s not  _ you _ .))

—and she’s a perfectly normal woman. And y’know, he may not have a chance with her, either, but it’s monumentally more likely than  _ you _ , with your  _ boyfriend _ , living miles and miles away — he works with her, and she’s part of the team, and Spencer wouldn’t  _ mind _ being with JJ. 

((Even though his stomach gives a lurch at the thought, anxiety balling up in his abdomen at even the  _ thought _ —))

But it’s always been  _ you _ . For the past four years, and maybe forever, it’s been you.

JJ’s nice. She’ll be a good friend — and maybe, in another life, he could’ve grown to like her as more — but in  _ this  _ life, she’s not  _ it  _ for him.)

Spencer’s phone buzzes in his back pocket, and it  _ jolts  _ him from the bubble that had formed around his head. He shoots JJ an apologetic look as he fumbles for it, not even shooting a glance at the caller ID — it’s probably his mom. “Sorry, let me just—”

“It’s okay, really—” 

When Spencer turns to answer the call, JJ turns to talk to Elle, and—

“Hello, this is Reid.”

_ “...Hey, Spence.” _

(All thoughts of moving on dissipate.)

You stare at your phone for  _ way _ too long. 

_ Much _ too long. 

_ Embarrassingly _ long, because this is  _ Spencer _ . Spencer Reid, your best friend, maybe the only person you trust as much as yourself — the guy who slurps red Jell-O cups and does  _ magic _ and rewrites mathematical proofs for fun. He’s… he’s soft and gentle and  _ sweet _ and he makes everyone around him feel appreciated, and he’d never hurt a fly, and—

You sigh, and roll over onto your back. Your eyes stare up and up and up, and not for the first time, you wish you were back in California — well, not in California particularly, but maybe in that one park where you’d gone stargazing that one time with Spence — because you’ve got fucking  _ popcorn _ ceiling and it still pisses you off, even years later.

...

It’s your day off, and you’re contemplating whether your best friend wants to talk to you and cursing out your ceiling. You’re very obviously a capable, healthy adult.

There’s shuffling from the bathroom, and then the door clicks open, and you restrain the urge to groan. 

“Hey, babe, did you get rid of my shampoo?”

Speaking of being a capable, healthy adult — Marcus peeks his head around the doorway of your ensuite, his hair turned copper with water. You have no doubt that he’s using your shower gel, your conditioner, your body scrub — and yeah, you’d gotten rid of his fucking shampoo, because he’s an asshole and you don’t know why you decided to sleep with him when you technically broke up two weeks ago. You don’t even  _ love  _ him.

If you’re being honest with yourself, you never really  _ liked  _ him in the first place, either.  _ He  _ liked  _ you _ , and he was the only one brave enough to say anything out of all of the other people who had crushes on you (and there definitely  _ were _ more, don’t get it twisted), really, so you’d agreed to go on a date and now it seems like you can’t get rid of him. You’d feel guilty for your general apathy towards him if he hadn’t been cheating on you for your entire relationship — you feel like that makes you both even.

“No,” you say easily, turning so that your back faces him. “You took it with you, didn’t you?”

He didn’t. He took his shirts and his trousers and that shitty lacrosse stick that he hung over your bed like some weird fucking shrine and he left. You didn’t cry. You almost did, but then—

But then you’d have to call Spencer`and tell him what happened, because Spencer’s the only person you know that can make you feel better after crying your eyes out, but  _ Spencer _ is an FBI hotshot now and he doesn’t need you calling him up like a blubbering baby. He’s got better things to be doing.

“Huh.” Marcus’s face screws up, before he shrugs. “I’m gonna use yours.”

You make some noncommittal sound and wait until he’s disappeared back into the bathroom before you face your bedside table once more. Your phone stares back at you, shiny and black and folded in two. 

_ You really think he wants to talk to you? _ It giggles, and then it repeats:  _ He’s got better things to be doing _ .

You bite your lip.

Maybe he does. Maybe he’s found a new friend in the — what has it been, a week? — week since you’ve spoken to him. Maybe he’s busy.  _ Maybe _ you don’t even  _ want _ him to pick up, really — even though he always does, even though he promises that he  _ will _ no matter what.

Maybe all of that is true, but it doesn’t matter because you’re nothing if not selfish — and so you reach over, you scroll through your contacts, and—

_ “Hello, this is Reid.” _

(In the back of your mind, you think it’s just slightly worrying how you sink into the mattress at the sound of his voice.)

“...Hey, Spence.”


	10. i'm just wondering when i'll stop wondering about you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a day in the life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reader's thoughts: exist  
> spencer: it's free real estate

“A thousand miles away, but you still got your hands on me

And I'm thinking, I'll never stop thinking about you

Going new places, meeting new faces

But your memory still isn't fading.”

[ — About You, Fletcher. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yKOqnbB8OPg)

Spencer does this thing when he’s particularly happy — this  _ thing _ , this quirk, this tic that you noticed in passing during your college years. His index finger curls towards his thumb, and he scratches lightly at the stretch of skin there, usually with a megawatt smile on his face.

It’s unbearably endearing. Seeing him do it unconsciously was often the thing that made you grin, and not for the first time you lament phone calls because you want to  _ see _ him. You want to see his too-wide smile and his slightly crooked teeth and the way his nose scrunches up when he laughs and how big and soft his eyes always are —  _ always _ , despite it all, despite the way people treat him, despite the cards he was dealt in life — and you want to see him scratch his thumb with your entire fucking  _ heart _ .

That sounds weird. And extremely pathetic. Especially because you’re laying beside your boyfriend, who sleeps like a starfish and very often forces you to scrunch up to avoid an errant limb. He came home with lipstick on his collar and it’s  _ terrible _ , it’s terrible because you honestly don’t give a fuck. He came home with another woman’s perfume all over him and all you could wonder was whether or not Spencer had finally fixed his sleep schedule — he never told you explicitly that it was messed up, but you’d known. You follow the BAU as closely as is allowed; follow his unit’s trail to New Orleans, then to Miami, to New York, to Indiana, to Alaska — and  _ that _ , paired with what you know is his mother’s worsening condition, is a definite mixture for insomnia.

The man’s a chronic overthinker. You suppose you’re alike in that way.

The day begins as any other does; you wake up before Marcus; hope the shower you step into doesn’t wake him up because he always takes it as an invitation; dress and apply makeup; eat a breakfast that consists of too-sweet cereal and too-sweet coffee while checking your email and planner. If you’re lucky you’ll have a few appointments and an email from Spencer; if you’re  _ unlucky _ , your entire day will be booked back to back, and you’ll have an email from—

“My parents want us up in Cali for Christmas,” you tell Marcus as he steps into the kitchen. He’s dressed already, a new tie that you hadn’t bought him around his neck. You have no intention of going — you’d genuinely rather have your teeth pulled — and luckily for you, you  _ know _ that Marcus doesn’t, either. You guess that he wants to spend the holiday with his new girlfriend; he’ll probably make up a work trip that he has to attend. That’s always the excuse, but hey! Maybe he’ll surprise you this time.

“Ah, sorry,” he says, handsome features pulling taut in a grimace, “I forgot to tell you, didn’t I? There’s this trip for work—”

You  _ almost _ roll your eyes. Almost.

“It’s fine,” you say, smiling softly. You’ve always been good at faking them — or, rather, Marcus has always been clueless enough to think they were genuine. Not like Spencer. “I’ll probably head up a week or two before.”

(That’s a lie.)

“Oh, nice. Hey, make sure to tell them I said hi, right?”

“Yeah, of course. Love you.”

He doesn’t say it back, of course, but you don’t really care — but the door shuts behind him and you realise how fucking sad you are. 

You’ve never really liked being alone, which is ironic because that’s how you always end up. Even now, even with Marcus, you’re alone. You’ve always surrounded yourself with people… maybe the wrong types of people; the types that gave you instant gratification, that clouded your mind with alcohol and weed and money so that you could forget even for a  _ moment _ that you were always going to be like  _ this _ , alone—

(But Spence—)

—but you’ve never  _ liked _ it. Yet here you are;  _ glad _ that your boyfriend is cheating on you so that you won’t have to be around him or your shared friend-group;  _ glad _ that he’s gone to ‘work’ two hours too early, leaving you in an empty apartment. 

Almost unconsciously, you refresh your email — more to have something for your restless hands to do than anything else, and you’re not expecting anything new to suddenly appear in your inbox, but then:

**_One unread._ ** __

**_Sender_ ** _ : S. Reid.  _ **_Subject_ ** _ : did you know that there are more than…  _ **_continue reading_ ** **_._ **

And you don’t feel quite so alone.

Okay, so maybe you were being a tad dramatic earlier. You’re not  _ always _ alone; not completely, anyway, even when it feels like it.

Case in point: your coworker, Laverne, who hates your boyfriend with all 5’4 inches of herself. She only comes up to your shoulders and yet, if you found yourself on her bad side, you’d probably change your name and move to Europe. During lunch — where she demolishes a cheeseburger, fries,  _ and _ a warm salad — she tells you quite plainly, that:

“You’re a fucking idiot.”

You almost choke on your fries. “E-excuse me?”

“Your boyfriend is cheating on you and you don’t give a fuck?” Laverne levels you with an unimpressed glare. “You’re wasting time on that waste of space when you could be cozying up to your FBI friend?”

This time you  _ do _ choke on your fries. “ _ Laverne— _ !”

“I know, I know,” she grunts, rolling her eyes. “‘It’s not  _ like _ that, Laverne!’ ‘We’re just  _ friends _ , Laverne!’ Save me the bullshit, _____.”

Your eyes narrow, and vaguely you remember that you can be  _ just _ as blunt and cutting as she can — granted, it’s a skill that you’d hoped to leave behind in high school. You’d almost succeeded in moving on from it in college, what with Spencer being so  _ sweet _ , but here you are. “It’s not  _ bullshit _ . It’s the truth. Don’t pretend that you know everything about me from the tiny amount I’ve told you.”

“It’s kinda my job to read between the lines,” Laverne replies coolly, reaching over the table for your milkshake. “And  _ that _ , my friend, sounds like textbook defensiveness to me.”

If you could back to an hour ago when you weren’t having this conversation, you totally fucking would, because she’s poking her nose in things that you’ve quite resolutely shoved down for years and you have no intention of dredging it all up at 1:30 PM on a Wednesday.

Spencer is… he’s a  _ friend _ . He’s a sweet, handsome man, with brains to boot and an  _ amazing _ , well-paying job. He wears his heart on his sleeve and he can  _ literally _ read you your favourite book without looking because he’s memorized it. He’s a momma’s boy and he’s proud of it; he loves with his entire body and soul. He sends you emails about obscure pagan rituals when it’s Halloween and without fail there’s a package on your doorstep when it’s your birthday. 

He’s a good man, and a good friend, and you… You are a child psychologist with commitment issues and rich parents. He can go  _ so, so  _ far. But not with you — not like that, no matter how much you… you might want to. 

You go quiet for a moment. Dip a fry into too much ketchup.

“Whatever,” you say at last. “It doesn’t matter.”

But she’s opened this little, miniscule part of your brain that’s been locked for a long time — that tiny little door that you’d kept closed because leaving it open meant hoping, and hoping is something you never allowed yourself to do. 

You peer out the window of the diner, watching as life passes you by. Cars beeping and stopping and turning ‘round corners; mothers shifting their kids higher onto their hips, fathers pushing along strollers. A guy lugging a gigantic suitcase behind him; a woman swinging her briefcase idly in her hands. A group of teens ditching school gathered outside a comic shop, snickering and laughing together, and you can only think about that little bookstore he liked so much back in California.

Spencer’s thousands of miles away and even now he’s all you can think about. And it hurts, y’know, because there’s no doubt in your mind that it’s not the same for him.

“What are you doing for Christmas?” You ask suddenly. With Marcus gone, your parents a complete and resolute  _ no,  _ it looks as if you’ll be spending the holiday season alone for the first time ever.

“Me? The usual. Parents want me back in Korea. You?”

Nothing. A cup of hot chocolate and a book or two and nothing but your own company for a whole two weeks. Great. Perfect, even! You’re capable of being on your own for two weeks with almost nothing to do and nobody to contact except the man that you’re in love with who lives less than three hours away by train but you’re too scared to actually  _ get _ on one because  _ what if he doesn’t actually want to see me—? _

“_____?”

“Sorry,” you mumble. “Tired. Uh, nothing much. Might see my parents, I don’t know.”

She doesn’t seem to believe you — but for once, she lets it go. Maybe she sees the way your eyes are suddenly downcast, focusing on some nondescript patch of asphalt outside; maybe she just gets bored of all your angst and wants to move on. “Right.”   
Outside, snow clouds roll in from the south, dark and heavy, and you hope that it won’t stick. You don’t like the cold when you have no-one to warm you.


End file.
